His eyes flash. “You really think backing off is going to make him stop?”
“No,” I admit. “But coming at him swinging won’t help either.”
He lets out a rough exhale, kicking at the snow near his boot. “I doubt Eli’s even his.”
I reply carefully, “We can’t say for sure…she hasn’t refuted it. So for now, that’s the truth we have to go with until she says otherwise.”
Callum looks up, his eyes narrowing. “And if sheneversays otherwise?”
“Then we keep our mouths shut and protect them anyway,” I say simply.
He exhales slowly, shaking his head. “You can’t seriously expect me to sit on my hands while that asshole harasses her over and over again."
“I’m not saying do nothing,” I counter. “But what Iamsaying is we need to be smart about it. We watch. We stay close. If he so much as breathes wrong in her direction, that’s when we deal with it.”
His gaze sharpens, something unreadable flickering behind it. “So stalk him. See what he’s up to and intervene if he tries anything. Document everything.”
I meet his stare evenly. “Something like that.”
He nods slowly, turning to look back the way we’d come from. His hand flexes around the shovel’s handle again, his shoulders lifting while he takes in a deep inhale.
He’s not wrong being worried—Jared’s a problem.
Abigone.
And if the cops won’t do their damn jobs, then it’ll be us that will make sure Noelle and Eli stay safe.
I glance back toward the hotel too where I know she’s probably pacing, worrying, overthinking the same way I am.
When Callum turns back to me, there’s a gleam in his eyes. One I’m not used to seeing. “Let’s find out where he works—if that fucker even has a job. Or where he lives. That way we can keep tabs on him.”
I almost tell him no.
The word is on the tip of my tongue, but at the last second Noelle’s red and swollen eyes flash in my mind.
“Alright.”
We finish clearing the snow around Noelle’s car, the little hatchback now free.
We stash the shovels in Callum’s truck and head into the business directly next to Noelle’s.
Like Noelle’s shop, this bakery is a little slice of Christmas packed into one tiny spot.
The smell of sugar is overwhelming when we push the door open, letting in a brief cold draft with us.
The window displays are already packed with pies domed with powdered sugar, a pyramid of gingersnaps, and platters of sugar cookies.
Garlands of paper snowflakes dusted in glitter are strung from the ceiling, decorating the entire place.
They catch the low winter light, making the entire shop glimmer.
The woman behind the counter looks every inch of a baker that would run a place like this.
Late sixties, grey hair pulled back into a knot on top of her head, flour smudging her glasses, apron tied tight around her waist.
She gives us a smile when we wander over to the counter.
“You boys look like you need something hot,” she says, and without missing a beat she hands each of us a cookie straight from the tray in her hand, still warm and steaming.
